Chapter 2
The sudden rush of boots on concrete shattered the heavy silence of the locker room. Three firefighters from the ready-relief shift—Lieutenant Brooks, a stocky paramedic named Diaz, and a rookie named Higgins—converged on Commander Vance like iron filings to a magnet. Vance stayed on one knee for a fraction of a second longer, his gaze locked onto the grimy helmet in Maya’s small arms, before he caught himself and pushed upright with a sharp grunt.
“Get her to the medical cot in the back office,” Vance barked at Diaz, his voice snapping with sudden, urgent authority. “Give her warm saline, check for smoke inhalation, and keep her away from the bay monitors.”
Diaz nodded once, his face grim as he knelt beside Maya. “Come on, kiddo. Let’s go sit down where it’s warm.”
Maya didn’t move. Her dark eyes remained fixed on Vance, unblinking and heavy with an adult kind of terror that no ten-year-old should ever have to wear. “You didn’t answer me,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “Was that him?”
“We’re going to find out, Maya,” Vance said, forcing a calm he was far from feeling. He tapped the shoulder mic of his radio, the black plastic casing slick with cold sweat. “Command to Seven-Actual, status report. Come in, Seven.”
The radio only hissed back white noise, punctuated by the distant, rhythmic wail of a secondary pump truck rolling out of the station house.
Vance turned sharply and strode toward the apparatus floor where the massive red engines sat under rows of fluorescent lights. The smell of burning rubber and superheated drywall seemed to have drifted in from the streets, clinging to the heavy turnout gear hanging in the stalls. Higgins was already climbing into the passenger seat of Engine Four, his hands shaking slightly as he buckled his shoulder harness.
“Commander, dispatch is getting crushed,” Higgins shouted over the idling diesel engine. “They’ve lost telemetry on the south wing of the warehouse. Structural collapse reported two minutes ago.”
Vance climbed onto the running board, his fingers gripping the cold chrome handrail. He looked back through the open personnel door toward the back office where Diaz was wrapping a foil blanket around Maya’s shoulders. The girl was staring straight ahead, the heavy helmet resting squarely in her lap like an anchor holding her to a world that was rapidly sinking.
“Establish a direct wire to the battalion chief on scene,” Vance ordered, leaning into the cab. “And someone secure that helmet. Do not let it leave the station house.”
May you like
As Engine Four roared out of the bay doors into the gray afternoon drizzle, Vance pulled his helmet from the overhead rack. His hands felt clumsy, weighted down by thirty years of history with Tom Miller. They had gone through the academy together, stood up at each other’s weddings, and pulled each other out of flashovers when the world turned blinding white and impossibly hot. If Tom was down, the department wasn’t just losing a captain; Vance was losing the mirror that kept him human.
The truck accelerated, sirens spooling up into a shrill, pulsing wall of sound that swallowed the memory of a little girl’s trembling voice.
